“No.”
“We had a deal, as I remember.”
“We did not.”
Dick. “Say what?”
“You didn’t accept my offer that morning. The Committee made the distributions as they saw fit.”
“I had my secretary call and tell you the same day!”
“I didn’t get a message from you or your secretary about that.”
“But you reassigned my cases.”
“She didn’t mention anything about the increase.”
Terrific. Her navel she remembered, my raise she forgot. “So what? You saw I kept the representation, didn’t you? You had me in the papers every day, you got the mileage you wanted. Don’t play games with me, Mack. I deserve that raise.”
His eyes narrowed. “I understand. No raise, no interviews?”
“I’m flexing. You impressed?” Turnabout was fair play, wasn’t it? “The whole thing is in your control, Mack.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s your choice, boss.”
He leaned over the cloth chair in front of my desk. “Christ! What’s the point, Rita? You don’t care about the money. You don’t need the money.”
“It’s the principle of the thing. General principles. They’re in the United States Code. You got the index?”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“You don’t understand general principles, Mack? The first one is ‘Keep your word’-you said you were going to give me a raise, do it. Another general principle is ‘Don’t quit.’ The third is ‘Don’t fink on your friends.’ And there’s always my personal favorite, ‘Get up and get it yourself.’ Shall I go on?”
He rolled his eyes. “If I get you the raise, then will you do the interviews?”
“In a word?”
He laughed abruptly. “All right.”
“Then we understand each other.”
“Hold your horses. I have to clear it with the Committee. That’ll take time.”
“My Court-TV interview was at three o’clock today. I can reschedule it if you get right back to me. Otherwise who knows when my schedule will allow-”
“Enough already.” He scowled. “Then we have a deal?”
“If the number’s right. Why don’t you call me back with an offer? I don’t want to put you on the spot now.”
Mack turned toward the door, shaking his head. “I should’ve known you’d pull a stunt like this.”
“Funny, I thought the same thing when I saw my paycheck.”
“You’re learning, kid,” he said as he opened the door.
“Is that a good thing?”
“In a word?” He smirked, and I smirked back. The word I was thinking of was: Not on your life.
“And Mack?” I called after him. “I want a laptop, too.”
“Why?”
“For show. I want to put it on my desk and not use it, like the big boys.”
“No,” he said flatly.
I took it as a maybe.
32
A lot happened in the next year. My father recovered from his injuries, although his eyesight worsened and he had to have an operation on his Cadillacs. His emotional state rebounded slowly, and he hated to see the shop finally sold. We spent Sunday mornings visiting LeVonne’s grave, but that wound would never heal. My father couldn’t bring himself to accept LeVonne’s death, and I didn’t fault him for this. The murder of a young man should never pass without notice, though it does, every day.
Uncle Sal and Betty got married and bought his-and-her Harleys. Cam sold the equipment from Lawns ’R Us, took the proceeds to the track, and made a bundle on the Trifecta. Herman amassed a respectable chip collection, and his daughter Mindy became my best friend and maid of honor. By the morning of my wedding day so much had happened I had forgotten about any alleged bet.
“You’re out of your mind,” I told my father. “What bet?”
“We made a bet, Rita,” he said. “You and me.” He squinted at the mirror through his new glasses and straightened his rented bow tie. We were getting ready to go into the private anteroom at the Horticultural Center in Fairmount Park.
“I didn’t make any bet with you.” I stood next to him, appraising myself in the mirror. An ivory sheath that fit only when I inhaled, more crow’s-feet than last year, and a horrified expression. I was ready to be married. “I wouldn’t bet about a thing like that.”
“My daughter?”
“All right, maybe I would.” And even though I was getting married, I hadn’t quit poker. With a great deal of prodding, my future husband decided he would at least try the game and join us on Tuesday nights. “But I still don’t remember any bet.”
“Fifty dollars sound familiar?”
“Fifty?” I was too jittery to think. Everyone was out there waiting. Fiske and Kate. Mack and half my firm, including Janine. Cam, Herman and Essie, Sal and Betty. David Moscow and his bread-baking lover. Only the press was excluded; I didn’t care if I never saw another reporter in my life. Just last week I had declined another offer for a TV movie. Based on a true story, my ass.
“We made the bet when I was in the hospital,” he said. “On who you’d marry, remember?”
The first strains of Purcell’s “Trumpet Voluntary” floated through the door, and my mouth went dry. “Dad, we have to go.” I grabbed his arm, tottering on stiff ivory pumps, and we hustled together out of the anteroom.
“We made it when I was sick, in the hospital. Not the eye operation, the time before.”
We stood arm in arm at the entrance to the main room, waiting for our cue. The room was actually a huge greenhouse, with white wooden chairs set in rows amid exotic hibiscus and fragrant gardenia. Rubber and palm trees grew all around, and tiny white lights twinkled from the tropical foliage. It was pretty, but hotter than I’d ever expected. Only Italians would rent humidity in a Philadelphia summer.
“Rita, remember? I bet you fifty dollars that you’d marry Paul.”
The music swelled, our cue came, and we stumbled forward onto the white paper runner. Guests turned around, craning their necks. I moistened my lips in an attempt to look virginal. “You put fifty on Paul?” I said, out of the side of my mouth.
“Yeah. Remember now?”
I looked at Paul, who smiled back at me nervously. My heart actually fluttered, he always looked so handsome in a tux. Tall and strong, with nice, long sideburns. “You actually bet I’d marry Paul, Dad?”
My father nodded as we passed the last row of guests. Heads turned when we walked by. Everyone I knew, everyone I loved, grinning. My heart felt light, giddy. I knew I’d made the right decision. I looked down the aisle at the best ponytail that ever happened to me, and Tobin, my husband-to-be, smiled back. I squeezed my father’s arm.
“Sucker,” I said.
And he laughed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Rita Morrone was harder to contain than most Italian girls, so I needed a great deal of advice in writing this book. I relied heavily and shamelessly on Lieutenant Jerry Gregory of the Radnor Police Department, who gave me so much of his time and expertise. I can’t thank him enough, and hope he’ll forgive the liberties I’ve taken here with his lovely police station, which is cleaner than my house. Special thanks, too, to Detective John Moroney (no relation, merely excellent karma) and Detective Lennie Azzaroni of the Philadelphia police, who answered all of my questions with patience and humor. Thanks to Maureen Rowley, Esq., of the superb federal public defenders office in Philadelphia. Any errors or omissions are on me.
This was the first time I was published between hardcovers, and for that I want to thank Geoff Hannell, my wonderful publisher, and Jack McKeown. Thanks to Gene Mydlowski, associate publisher and art director, for the best covers on legal thrillers anywhere and for his improvements to this manuscript. Special thanks to Carolyn Marino, my editor, who has been so supportive of me and my career from the outset. Carolyn is solely responsible for my content (when it’s good, that is), and her suggestions for improving this manuscript were, as always, right on the money. She is, quite simply, invaluable.